And In The Cruel Winter Months
by CelestialFlower
Summary: What if Feuilly never met Les Amis?


_A/N Hey! Just a short drabble-ish thing for Feuilly whom I have never written about, did I do him justice? _

Winters in Paris were always cold, but none of its citizens could remember having experienced one as terrible as in 1831. During the day, the snow falling and the icicles forming under low-hanging eaves ready to be broken off by children running along the street muddying their shoes in the slushy ice had a romantic air to it; young lovers could often by seen sauntering along the boulevards, huddled together for warmth, their cheeks flushed pink from the cold and the contact. At night however, icy winds blew through those same streets, frost crusted the windows of the houses and shops and swirling snow accumulated so quickly that by morning, the streets were covered to up to a foot in it.

It was midnight in December and the only people not inside in the warmth were those who had been delayed by something or other and were now hurrying, heads bent against the wind, scarves wrapped around red necks and hands in woolen gloves to preserve as much heat as possible, back where they came from. All of them were almost oblivious to their surroundings, thinking only of their warm beds awaiting them when they returned home. One man in particular was so single-mindedly focused on his destination, he didn't notice the young man standing in his path until he almost ran into him.

"W- I say!" He exclaimed stopping short and looking properly at this irritation.

The young man in question held up his hands in apology. The two could not have been more different; this man had no scarf or gloves, or even shoes. He was dressed in rags, shivering terribly and if one looked close enough, one could discern a slight blueness in the tips of his fingers.

"Excuse me Monsieur" he asked in a wavering voice, "would you like to buy a fan?"

He held one up for the man to see, but all he saw was the dirt on the other's face and his stained teeth as he tried to smile.

"No thank you" he replied brusquely. "I must be off, clear out of my way."

The young man stepped aside.

"Stupid bourgeois" he muttered once the man had passed by. He hadn't sold a single fan today and knew he would not eat tomorrow. He walked over and leant against the wall of the nearest house bordering the street, slipping down it until he was crouched uncomfortably on the ground. He dared not sit for the snow would surely soak through his thin clothes. From there he could see clearly through the windows of the café across from him. Looking up as he was, the figures that passed in front of the windows looked grand and tall. One group, in particular, drew his eye. There were seven of them he could count, they were gathered around a table in the corner, drinking and warming their hands in front of yellow fire flickering in the grate there. One man was clearly giving a speech, standing atop a chair, The young man found himself so mesmerized by his expressions and gestures, that for a minute he could forget the agony of his frostbitten fingers and toes and instead pretend that he was warm and safe in the café, listening to him.

Then, as he watched, the speaker's blond hair started to morph into a dark grey liberally streaked with white. When he turned, the young man drew in a breath.

"Father."

This apparition drifted through the window until it came to stand in front of the unfortunate young man. It smiled kindly at him and held out a hand. The young man took it and was overwhelmed with the sensation of flying, as well as happiness as he had never felt.

OoOoOoOoO

"Combeferre!"

Jehan's urgent cry from the street had Combeferre up in an instant, running to his friend. The rest of the Amis followed curiously.

When he emerged from the café, it was to see Jehan crouching beside an urchin collapsed at the edge of the street.

The man's open vacant eyes and blue tinged skin told Combeferre all he needed to know but still he joined Jehan and felt for a pulse. Finding none, he looked up at the others who had congregated around him and shook his head in response to their questioning looks. Combeferre slid his eyelids down and was about to turn away from the wretched corpse when a soft voice stopped him.

"Wait" Enjolras stepped forward. "I know this man."

"You do?" Combeferre asked, surprised.

"Yes" Enjolras replied evenly. "He and I talked at a demonstration last month. His name was Feuilly. He was a good man."

"We will make sure that no one else dies like him." Jehan said firmly.

Enjolras smiled grimly at him. "To Feuilly."

"To Feuilly" everyone echoed.

And as the day dawned, it was over the body of the hero that should have been.

_So yeah, inspired by Hans Christian Andersen's '_The Little Match Girl_'. Thanks for reading!_


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